


Stolen Moment

by Phoenix_Soar



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Beards (Facial Hair), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Switching, Tender Crowley (Good Omens), Tender Sex, also deserves a tag for, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: ‘You know, Mr Cortese,’ he drawls, ‘I’ve noticed you looking my way an awful lot these few years. A man could get the wrong idea, you understand.’At the end of their employment as Warlock Dowling’s tutors, one Mr Cortese and one Mr Harrison steal an intimate moment together, during the first snow of their last night, before they must inevitably return to being hereditary enemies.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 226
Collections: Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange





	Stolen Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/gifts).



> This is my gift to the lovely Stan, for the Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange!
> 
> Behold, my first attempt at an Ineffable Tutors fic. I tried to bring together as many of your prompts as possible (including a close approximation of white suit Crowley) bc I loved all of them. I really hope you like it <3
> 
> Many thanks to Az and Stef (@angelsnuffbox and @flamingbentley on TW) for organising this delightful exchange. Az deserves another shoutout for the beta, this fic is x10 better for it.

It’s a dark and freezing night, the winter chill hinting at the first snowfall. A bearded blond man named Mr Cortese, who has just exited the American Cultural Attache’s residence, stops in the driveway, shivering. 

Glancing around the deserted grounds, he snaps his fingers. Immediately, his tweed coat, worn over a tartan waistcoat and blue shirt, becomes comfortably warm; for he is not so much a man but a man-shaped ethereal being, just as Mr Cortese is not so much his name but a name he goes by.

The Principality Aziraphale looks up at the overcast sky and waits. 

A minute later, another man-shaped being, this one occult in nature and bundled in a black trench coat, walks out. He stops on Aziraphale’s left.

‘Mr Cortese.’ The greeting is formal.

‘Mr Harrison,’ Aziraphale returns politely, turning. 

Not for the first time, Aziraphale’s breath hitches at the sight of auburn hair, shorter than it had been for decades but long enough to flop stylishly into eyes shrouded behind sunglasses. The angular face is obscured by a scruffy beard as well, but it’s thin enough to outline his sharp jawline. His high cheekbones.

Crowley’s lips.

Aziraphale averts his gaze. He pretends he hasn’t been thinking about _Mr Harrison_ since they ‘met’ four years ago.

‘This is it, then,’ says the Demon.

Aziraphale nods. As the winter holidays begin, so ends their stint as tutors to Warlock Dowling, son of the American ambassador and bringer of Armageddon. The thought chills him; they have eight months before the Antichrist turns eleven, during which he and his _adversary_ are to monitor the results of their respective influences.

Eight months more of being with Crowley, before the world possibly goes pear-shaped. His heart clenches.

‘Regrettably good at maths, that boy,’ Crowley is muttering, hands in his coat pockets. ‘Likes _baseball_ , tsk.’

‘Surely being that normal is better than -’

‘Mr _Cortese_ ,’ Crowley says pointedly. ‘What are you nattering on about?’

Aziraphale winces at his slip-up. Right. They are meant to compare Antichrist-related notes in secret, not here.

‘It looks like snow,’ he says instead. ‘But it’s too early, especially for London.’

A troubled expression dawns on Crowley then. Despite his own warning, he mutters, ‘Hardly surprising. What with the world about to…’

Aziraphale stares at Crowley, helplessness mixing with an old familiar ache. Even Crowley is acutely aware of how little time they have left. They’ve executed their plan, but success is yet to be determined and -

It occurs to Aziraphale, as it continually has over the past decade, that the time slipping through his fingers soon won’t be enough for all the … for _everything_ he wants but hasn’t been able to give Crowley.

Crowley catches his eye. His gloom diminishes, chased away by a mischievous smirk. ‘You know, Mr Cortese,’ he drawls, ‘I’ve noticed you looking my way an awful lot these few years. A man could get the wrong idea, you understand.’

He’s teasing, the way he has teased Aziraphale since time immemorial - but now, it’s on a topic considered taboo.

Because when they are Messrs Cortese and Harrison, they can get away with it; these nonchalant, not-very-innocent-at-all observations disguised as jokes.

At that moment, Aziraphale makes a monumental decision. Leaning into Crowley’s space, he offers, ‘Perhaps … you have the right idea.’ He pauses meaningfully. ‘Mr Harrison.’

Crowley’s jaw slackens, his breath misting on a surprised exhale. He takes off the sunglasses, revealing eyes burning like embers. Disbelief wars with cautious _hope_.

Aziraphale breaks down a wall six thousand years in the making; he lays his hand on Crowley’s arm. 

_Yes_. 

There’s a beat. Then, without another word, Crowley takes what’s being offered. 

As he is led around the Dowlings’ house to the outbuilding in the garden, Aziraphale knows there is no turning back. His heart pounds, but what he feels is far from regret.

~***~

The outhouse used to be the gardener’s space, back when Warlock’s daily influences were a live-in nanny and gardener. Despite the years since, the outhouse remains unchanged, its sitting-room-cum-kitchen and bedroom still furnished.

Every feature is familiar to Aziraphale when the lights flicker on and the chill of the empty outhouse dissipates in a flare of heat. But he has eyes for only one when the door slams shut and he is pushed up against it.

Slitted golden eyes bore into his, inches away. ‘Is this the right idea, then, _Mr Cortese_?’ Crowley’s voice is a sultry purr, but Aziraphale hears the uncertain edge underneath.

‘Crowle -’

There’s a flash of panic. ‘Dunno anyone by that name,’ Crowley hisses, pushing against him in warning. 

Crowley’s warmth all down his front is distracting as Aziraphale reminds himself of the dangerous loophole they’re playing with. 

‘Rest assured, _Mr Harrison_ , I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’

Crowley’s face softens. ‘Good.’

It knocks the breath out of him, having Crowley’s mouth on his. Aziraphale gasps, shivering at the contrasting softness of Crowley’s lips and the scratch of his whiskers. Tilting his head to slip his tongue between Aziraphale’s parted lips, Crowley cups his face, stroking his fingers through the Angel’s thicker beard.

Overwhelmed as Crowley licks deeper into his mouth, Aziraphale bunches his fists in the trench coat, almost embarrassed at how swiftly his body reacts to Crowley’s touch, his trousers tightening.

‘Ngh.’ Crowley moves to kiss along Aziraphale’s cheek to tease his earlobe. ‘I’ve imagined this for so long.’ Aziraphale trembles at the implication. Crowley begins to push off the tweed coat. ‘This all right?’

‘Please.’

‘How much is all right?’

Aziraphale swallows. ‘ _All_ of it.’

Crowley goes still. ‘What do you want, ang … Mr Cortese?’

‘You.’ It almost hurts to say, this painfully frank truth. ‘I want to see you. Feel you.’ He refuses to tack on _Mr Harrison_.

Crowley is wearing a smouldering look that makes Aziraphale feel faint. ‘Anything.’

Crushing their mouths together in a fervent kiss, Crowley divests Aziraphale of his clothes, making quick work of his coat, waistcoat and shirt. Aziraphale suspects a minor miracle, but his mind blanks when Crowley’s hands finally meet his bare skin; they trace along his shoulders and down over his chest, teasing his nipples and digging into his plump waist.

‘Gorgeous,’ Crowley whispers against his lips. 

Aziraphale tries to keep up, impatiently shoving off Crowley’s trench coat, but then he’s sidetracked. 

_Mr Harrison_ favours crisp white shirts with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, paired with slim neckties. Tonight’s is a dark burgundy, and just like the first time, Aziraphale is enchanted by how well the fitted ensemble accentuates Crowley’s broad shoulders and tapering waist.

‘Like what you see?’

‘It - it’s very…’ Aziraphale chokes off when Crowley grinds their hips together, the evidence of both their interest unmistakeable.

‘You like me in white.’ Crowley sounds smug. ‘Shall I leave it on or you’d rather see me?’

Aziraphale runs a finger down Crowley’s buttons; his shirt falls open and the tie loosens, baring his lean torso. 

‘Why not both?’

‘Greedy thing.’

Aziraphale is pulled away from the door and pushed down into an armchair where Brother Francis had spent many evenings. He barely registers the disappearance of his shoes and trousers as Crowley lazily unbuckles his belt in front of him.

Kicking off his black trousers, Crowley straddles Aziraphale, grinning when the Angel’s gaze rakes down his chest and stomach to settle on his cock, hard and straining already.

‘Look your fill, Mr Cortese.’

But Aziraphale wants more now. Grasping Crowley’s hips, he urges him up until he has one foot planted on the armrest. Licking his lips, Aziraphale bends down.

‘Fuck!’ Crowley grabs the back of the armchair when Aziraphale takes him in his mouth, sucking eagerly on his head. 

Aziraphale moans at the bitter-salt taste of Crowley, the way his cock stretches his lips, and wonders how he’d gone so long without this; without feeling Crowley, without _knowing_ Crowley. Licking along the underside, Aziraphale takes him in deeper, humming with pleasure.

‘Hell, ange - C-Cortese,’ Crowley stutters, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulder. ‘Warn a bloke!’

Aziraphale quickly pulls off, stricken. ‘I should’ve asked -’

A hand grips his hair and Aziraphale is yanked back onto Crowley’s cock. ‘Wasn’t complaining,’ he says breathily. 

Aziraphale swallows Crowley down, delighted when he begins to thrust gently into his mouth. Squeezing Crowley’s buttocks to urge him on, Aziraphale gazes up at him from under his lashes, wanton and adoring.

Crowley blesses loudly. ‘You can’t look at me like that and not fuck me. Bloody unfair, that is.’

Aziraphale’s eyes widen when Crowley pulls out. ‘Oh - oh, my dea - would you let me -?’

He is cut off with a heated kiss, Crowley’s tongue delving into his mouth while a slick hand strokes his cock. Straddling him again, Crowley sinks onto Aziraphale. He gasps at finding Crowley already stretched and dripping and sinfully hot.

Aziraphale leans in to kiss his neck while Crowley wiggles in his lap. ‘If anything is unfair, it’s you depriving me of the chance to prepare you, Mr Harrison.’ Aziraphale scrapes his beard over Crowley’s collarbones, making him whine. ‘How I should’ve liked to pleasure you.’

‘You can pleasure me,’ Crowley rasps, ‘just like this.’ He lifts his hips and Aziraphale is helpless in the face of his invitation. Taking hold of his waist, Aziraphale thrusts up into Crowley, groaning at the tight scorching heat of him.

Swearing, Crowley rocks down, his firm arse cheeks slapping Aziraphale’s thighs wetly.

‘Fuck, you feel good,’ he says. ‘Always knew you’d feel amazing.’

Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s chest. Pushing open his white shirt further, he kisses over the warm skin until his mouth finds a pert nipple.

‘Ohh,’ Crowley throws back his head, ‘that shouldn’t feel so - _fuck_ , your beard, I -!’

Aziraphale licks over the nipple, dragging his furred chin over the sensitive skin and revelling in Crowley’s shudders. The Demon clenches down on him, his tight walls squeezing Aziraphale’s cock harder on every thrust. The pleasant torture of it is exquisite.

‘Nice beard, Mr Cortese,’ Crowley pants, flashing a grin when Aziraphale cries out. ‘Been wanting that on me since I saw you…’

Aziraphale eyes Crowley’s scruff in turn, imagining the feel of it between his legs; his cheeks burn. Overwhelmed, he tugs on Crowley’s loosened necktie, pulling him into another kiss. He obliges, catching Aziraphale’s lips between sharp teeth and sucking harshly.

With Crowley on him and around him in every way, Aziraphale is fast hurtling towards the edge. Crowley senses it, pulling back to growl, ‘C’mon, ang - you … come for me, come _in_ me, let me feel you…’

It’s all Aziraphale can do to not shout Crowley’s name as his pleasure peaks.

‘Oh, hell,’ Crowley groans when Aziraphale spills inside him. He fucks down on the Angel, his cock red and leaking as he chases his release. ‘Oh, I’m -!’

‘No, wait.’ Aziraphale gasps, stopping Crowley’s movements. ‘Not … not yet…’

Crowley half-glares at him with confused frustration; then he reads the embarrassed plea in Aziraphale’s eyes.

‘Have a request, do ya, Mr Cortese?’

Aziraphale licks his dry lips. ‘If you would be so kind as to - to … return the favour … Mr Harrison.’

Arousal flares anew on Crowley’s face, his mouth curving up. ‘You want me to fuck you?’

‘I want you,’ Aziraphale whispers.

Eyes softening, Crowley pulls off him. He tugs Aziraphale up by the hand, leading him to the door that leads to the second room of the outhouse.

‘Cro - Mr Harrison?’

‘Want you to be comfortable,’ Crowley mumbles. The bedroom door clicks shut behind them and Crowley kisses the surprised - touched - look off Aziraphale’s face. He walks him backwards to the bed where Aziraphale is laid down on soft sheets that didn’t exist until a minute ago.

‘How do you want it?’ Crowley’s voice is heartbreakingly gentle.

Aziraphale looks into his golden eyes; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to see them like this again.

So he replies, brutally honest, ‘In every way.’

Crowley chuckles, kissing his jaw. ‘And I’ll give it to you, but tell me specifically.’

Aziraphale swallows. ‘I want your mouth first.’

With a pleased hum, Crowley slithers down, reaching for Aziraphale’s soft cock.

‘Not there.’

Crowley looks up quickly; his surprise melts into pure delight. ‘My, aren’t you just something, Mr Cortese.’ Chuckling, he drops a kiss on Aziraphale’s thigh. ‘Turn over for me, sweetheart.’

The endearment is delivered lightheartedly, but it thrills Aziraphale as he obeys, wondering how it would feel if it were Crowley, not _Mr Harrison_ , calling him that.

But then his thoughts scatter when Crowley parts his cheeks, and with a heated ‘Beautiful’, presses his tongue to Aziraphale’s entrance.

It’s everything Aziraphale has imagined and more. The slick drag of Crowley teasing him open. The scratch of his beard, strange and oddly erotic, on his skin. Aziraphale buries his face in the sheets, mewling as Crowley works his tongue inside him, sucking gently on his rim. 

Trapped against the mattress, his cock begins to harden again. The pleasure swells when Crowley presses a slick finger inside him, moving in tandem with his tongue.

Aziraphale pants, his legs quivering as Crowley squeezes in a second finger, fucking him open. Crowley’s tongue reaches as deep as his fingers, and it twists in an unnatural manner, sending jolts of arousal through him.

‘Oh, oh, please -!’

‘Hard for me again, Mr Cortese?’ Crowley drawls, replacing his tongue with yet another finger. ‘Eager, aren’t you.’

‘Please, Crow -’ Aziraphale stops. He can’t call him _Mr Harrison._ Not like this. ‘ _Please_ , just fuck me.’

‘With pleasure.’ 

He crawls up, draping the long length of his body over Aziraphale’s back. Sweet kisses are pressed over Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders as Crowley nudges his legs open, pressing the blunt head of his cock inside.

Aziraphale moans, with both relief and utter desire, when he is stretched open and slowly, agonisingly filled.

‘Tell me how you like it, sweetheart.’ Crowley nips at his neck, bottoming out. ‘Tell me how best to give you pleasure.’

’S-slow,’ Aziraphale says breathily, ‘but hard when you … deep.’

Crowley hisses under his breath. ‘ _Fuck_ , ange -! Heavens blessed…’ He rocks back, and just as Aziraphale said, keeps it slow, letting his cock drag out. There is a tormenting beat and then Crowley slams inside, fucking into Aziraphale until his pelvis is flush with his arse.

‘Like that?’

Aziraphale can only cry out, feeling completely wrecked already. Crowley swears again, his voice shaking. He begins to fuck Aziraphale in earnest, setting the slow torturous pace and pounding his arse on every thrust, burying as deep as he can go.

‘Oh, God,’ Aziraphale gasps, vaguely aware of the bed rocking against the wall.

‘That’s blasphemy, y’know,’ Crowley grunts in his ear, tucking his face against Aziraphale’s neck. ‘Are you a man of faith, Mr Cortese?’

The name grates on Aziraphale’s nerves, especially when Crowley covers both his hands with his own, entwining their fingers together to hold Aziraphale down. The gesture is possessive and the position heartrendingly intimate, but all of it is eclipsed by that name, that _pretence_ , when Crowley says, breathless,

‘You’re gorgeous, Mr Cortese. Wanted you from the moment I saw you. Everything was new and beautiful, but nothing was as arresting as you.’

Aziraphale knows Crowley isn’t referring to the moment they met as Warlock Dowling’s tutors - and he hates it, hates it when Crowley calls him _Mr Cortese_ again, calls him _sweetheart_ as he continues to murmur sweet nothings in his ear, worshipful praises of how lovely he is, how wanted he is, because it’s not real like this, not real -

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale sobs when Crowley thrusts in again, brushing against something that makes him see stars.

Crowley freezes at once, everything from his movements to his breath. ‘Mr Cor -’

‘ _Don’t_.’

Crowley begins to pull away, but Aziraphale tightens their entangled hands together.

‘Don’t,’ he begs. ‘I … I want _you_ , Crowley.’

A beat. ‘Oh, angel…’ Crowley sighs, pressing down on Aziraphale again.

Aziraphale whimpers when Crowley begins to move once more, tracing heated kisses down the side of his neck. He calls him _Aziraphale_ and _angel_ and it sounds better, infinitely better. 

It sounds _right_.

'Up on that wall, you shone brighter than the stars I put in the sky,’ Crowley whispers. ‘You’re better, better than all of them.’

Aziraphale bites back another sob. He can’t hear this; if he does, he’ll never stop wanting to hear it again and again. 

‘Please, my dear. Just … just make love to me.’ 

Crowley understands at once. ‘If you want my silence, you shall have it.’

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley pulls away and rolls him onto his back. Wrapping Aziraphale’s legs around him, Crowley enters him again, leaning down to kiss him sloppily. 

The angle is odder in this position and Crowley has miraculously wedged what feels like a pillow under his hips. But Aziraphale realises he prefers this too - being able to lose himself in Crowley’s affectionate gaze, not a rare sight but hardly ever given so vulnerably, as they make love.

It’s perfect. Crowley puts his hand on Aziraphale, stroking him to completion, and he calls Aziraphale’s name as he comes, and it’s perfect.

Aziraphale welcomes him into his arms when Crowley collapses on him, his hips still cradled between Aziraphale’s thighs. As they catch their breath, he gently runs his fingers through Crowley’s sweat-damp hair, smiling when the Demon nuzzles his neck in turn. Crowley’s white shirt is damp as well, sticking to his back where Aziraphale rests his palm. He is warm, so very warm, and it’s the most welcome thing as the coolness of the winter night begins to return now that they are sedate.

‘You were right,’ Crowley says then.

‘Hmm?’ Aziraphale asks, his mind still hazy.

‘It’s snowing…’ 

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s gaze to the bedroom’s window. The curtains are open, revealing the flurry of pristine white snowflakes fluttering down.

‘It’s too early,’ Aziraphale repeats very softly.

Crowley hums. ‘Pretty, though. If you don’t think about what it means.’

They fall silent then, just holding each other in the silence of the gardener’s bed as they watch the first snow.

Soon, they will have to leave, and they’ll emerge once more as Mr Cortese and Mr Harrison, never to speak of this again.

But, Aziraphale thinks as he hugs Crowley tighter to him, for a little while, just for a little while, they can have this stolen moment. Until the end of the first snowfall at least, they can be this, just them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3
> 
> Make my day with a kudos or comment, or hmu on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) and [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


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